I was having a temper tantrum, though not a very big one as tantrums go. Something about my chin in a picture I think. "Jenni, remember when you were in India? What was it you said about loving your..."
"Knock if off. Only I am allowed to philosophize about my trip to India!"
But of course, he was absolutely right. And look, I don't want to get into some sappy post about my engagement but let me just say that I would greatly appreciate if he would NOT DO THAT. Okay? In the first place he is way to patient with me, which totally makes me look bad, but there is no reason to compound the insult by being right. Mmmkay?
Anyway, I did learn some junk in India and I do tend to forget it. This basically means I need to go back to India, right? Right? Whose with me?
It costs 3x more to buy a stamp than it does to buy a 4'x6' photo print. Also the mail man at my office is totally crazy. Sometimes it's cute, and sometimes it's scary. About a week ago a coworker came running out of her office thinking he was attacking me. Nope, just banging my desk for emphasis. He really hates misdirected mail.
I think I broke my toe. And when you hear that you think: Oh sure, a broken toe, big deal. But it IS a big deal, yo. Because it hurts to walk on this thing, and closed toed shoes are currently out of the question. And wearing flip-flops in the office is generally frowned upon. So pity me already, people! And yes, the fact that a certain republican spent significant time holding a bag of frozen raspberries against my foot (while repeatedly asking if I was okay and do I want some water and can he give me a back rub) should probably cover me in the pity department for several foot injuries to come. Yes, I know this. But my foot hurts!
Lessons we have learned in this post so far: Cathlin is a twit. Her fiancee is greatly to be pitied.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
How It Happened
I spent the evening running. Well, jogging/walking/running. It's all just an excuse to be alone with my thoughts anyway. Easier to let my mind wander when my legs are doing the same thing. Anyway, it was also humid out, and I took the last hill home at a full run. And I walked in the door a fluffy, sweaty, flushing mess of satisfaction. Which is how all exercising should end, fluffy and sweaty and at peace with God and man. Sorry, I've just waxed poetic about humidity and sweat.
And then the rocks hit the door, and I knew. I knew in the way you always know these things, which is to say that I had no idea, knew all along, was completely surprised, and remained unfazed in anyway. Two rocks hit the door and my life flashed before my eyes, or maybe it was my reflection in the mirror. She looked confused at first, and then she shrugged her soccer-jersey clad shoulders and ran a hand over the wisps of hair escaping her pony-tail. If she could deal with it, I could. We were a team, this sweaty apparition and I. Together we opened the door.
He wasn't there of course, no one was. Just the small stones scattered on the balcony, the fireflies dancing in giddy anticipation, and a disembodied voice reading Cyrano's lines. Do you know Cyrano? Of course, we all do. We have all been Cyrano at one point, haven't we? Calling out our lines from under the balcony, where no one can see our huge noses. Only this Cyrano does not have such a large nose. In fact, he has a perfectly charming nose. I love his nose. But he stayed under the balcony anyway, reading out lines from the play I love. And because I did not have any lines of my own to read, I passed the time peaking through the slats of the balcony floor, pelting him with the pebbles he had used against my door. And then he stepped out into the glow from my door and held up a box. More stones. But this one is yellow and sparkly and magical. A sapphire, which defies reason with its color. And I take it. With all my heart.
And then the rocks hit the door, and I knew. I knew in the way you always know these things, which is to say that I had no idea, knew all along, was completely surprised, and remained unfazed in anyway. Two rocks hit the door and my life flashed before my eyes, or maybe it was my reflection in the mirror. She looked confused at first, and then she shrugged her soccer-jersey clad shoulders and ran a hand over the wisps of hair escaping her pony-tail. If she could deal with it, I could. We were a team, this sweaty apparition and I. Together we opened the door.
He wasn't there of course, no one was. Just the small stones scattered on the balcony, the fireflies dancing in giddy anticipation, and a disembodied voice reading Cyrano's lines. Do you know Cyrano? Of course, we all do. We have all been Cyrano at one point, haven't we? Calling out our lines from under the balcony, where no one can see our huge noses. Only this Cyrano does not have such a large nose. In fact, he has a perfectly charming nose. I love his nose. But he stayed under the balcony anyway, reading out lines from the play I love. And because I did not have any lines of my own to read, I passed the time peaking through the slats of the balcony floor, pelting him with the pebbles he had used against my door. And then he stepped out into the glow from my door and held up a box. More stones. But this one is yellow and sparkly and magical. A sapphire, which defies reason with its color. And I take it. With all my heart.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Reflections on a Year That Didn't Exist
It's been a year now, since I moved to DC to embark on a fictitious year in a life otherwise totally planned out. A full year since I stepped out of the hallowed doors of academia for a brief hiatus in the "real world", a place of employment and dating outside the ivory towers I've so long considered my true home. For the most part, things have gone according to plan.
I got a job, though not nearly as menial and low-paying as I had anticipated. Oh, I am most certainly NOT complaining! I am very grateful for the employment and early promotion that pretty much fell into my lap within a month of moving here; such luck I did not expect nor deserve. And though the plan to work full time and not write papers has succeeded brilliantly, what I did not anticipate is the relationships I would form within that work context. The paycheck and benefits are nice, but the people have stretched me, challenged me, and improved me. There once was a little girl from Minersville Utah, and I'm not that little girl anymore.
I took a fencing class, too. I never expected to come out a world-class Dread-Pirate-Roberts-Style fencer, but I would be lying if I said I didn't harbor a certain illogical hope. That said, what I did learn in that class was how uncomfortable I am with my physical abilities. Whether I can do something well or not, I am terrified and mortified at the idea of someone seeing me do it. This made the course more than a little difficult for me at first, but over the weeks I was able to loosen up about it. Eventually I even learned to enjoy it. I would have expected my fencing style to be someone reticent, slow paced, and even retreating. In reality, my fencing strategy turned out to be along the lines of "Attack! Attack! Attack again! MustnotlethimhitmesoIwillhithimfirstattaaaaaack!" Not always graceful, but unfailingly aggressive.
I did not learn to tango, unfortunately. So this form of dance must remain on my to-learn list. I did learn a little bit about 18th century dancing technique, however, and a little more about swing. About the former I still know relatively little, but I did attend a short dance lesson in George Washington's assembly rooms at Mt. Vernon. As far as dates go, that one will remain one of my favorites. Hot cider, gingerbread, and dancing instruction aside, I highly recommend taking a moonlit stroll through George Washington's private garden with your significant other around Christmas time.
I also highly recommend swing dancing! East-coast swing, to be more precise. I'd learned west-coast style before but the lindy-hop seemed at once too complex in its basic step and too simple in its variations thereon. West-coast has a simpler basic step and allowed more improvisation thereon. I learned all of this, of course, on another date which ranks in my top dates of all time. This time, set the stage in the 1950's. Picture an old amusement park, with a carousel and bumper cars. Imagine a ballroom packed with couples, jiving to the groove of "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" and other similar tunes as played and sung by a live band and appropriately costumed singer. And of course, when it gets too hot inside with all the dancing, you'll just step outside and wander down to the swing-set where you'll talk and laugh and watch the stars and fireflies. Then you'll dance again, of course, and race to the carousel where you'll ride matching ostriches and hold hands. And when it's all over you'll go for a malt at the Silver Diner, and then he'll walk you to your door like a gentleman. And this time-traveling year will feel even less real then before.
I had also hoped to cultivate a disinterested approach to watching politics unfold in DC. I came here an independent, and independent I remain. But I had wanted to be an observer, sort of like taking my anthro training into my political life. And it is not that easy. I find myself drawn into political discourse, fascinated by both sides but undeniably pulled to the left. I will probably never register as a democrat, but I wonder if I'll ever seriously consider voting republican at all. The protests, the arguments, the rallies and the speeches fascinate me. But I cannot remain aloof to it all. I take sides, have opinions, and argue back. Someone, somewhere, a lofty anthropology professor probably, in a tweed jacket, will laugh at my naivete. Lesson learned, oh young fool! It is not as easy as it sounds, particularly when, unlike your stay in India, you actually understand what is going on.
Overall, this year feels like such a resounding success to me. It wasn't as I had imagined it, and that is as it should be. So, now, time to pack up right? Time to tie off any loose ends of the year-that-didn't-exist and finish up preparations to resume my real-life in academia. Scotland awaits!
Except, you can't plan everything can you? Sometimes the world surprises you. Life surprises you. Sometimes, despite all your best laid plans a boy walks into your life and turns your best laid plans on their head. True, sometimes that boy is a republican. But sometimes that boy is also incredibly smart and funny and good. Sometimes that wonderful boy asks you to marry him.
And sometimes you say yes.
I got a job, though not nearly as menial and low-paying as I had anticipated. Oh, I am most certainly NOT complaining! I am very grateful for the employment and early promotion that pretty much fell into my lap within a month of moving here; such luck I did not expect nor deserve. And though the plan to work full time and not write papers has succeeded brilliantly, what I did not anticipate is the relationships I would form within that work context. The paycheck and benefits are nice, but the people have stretched me, challenged me, and improved me. There once was a little girl from Minersville Utah, and I'm not that little girl anymore.
I took a fencing class, too. I never expected to come out a world-class Dread-Pirate-Roberts-Style fencer, but I would be lying if I said I didn't harbor a certain illogical hope. That said, what I did learn in that class was how uncomfortable I am with my physical abilities. Whether I can do something well or not, I am terrified and mortified at the idea of someone seeing me do it. This made the course more than a little difficult for me at first, but over the weeks I was able to loosen up about it. Eventually I even learned to enjoy it. I would have expected my fencing style to be someone reticent, slow paced, and even retreating. In reality, my fencing strategy turned out to be along the lines of "Attack! Attack! Attack again! MustnotlethimhitmesoIwillhithimfirstattaaaaaack!" Not always graceful, but unfailingly aggressive.
I did not learn to tango, unfortunately. So this form of dance must remain on my to-learn list. I did learn a little bit about 18th century dancing technique, however, and a little more about swing. About the former I still know relatively little, but I did attend a short dance lesson in George Washington's assembly rooms at Mt. Vernon. As far as dates go, that one will remain one of my favorites. Hot cider, gingerbread, and dancing instruction aside, I highly recommend taking a moonlit stroll through George Washington's private garden with your significant other around Christmas time.
I also highly recommend swing dancing! East-coast swing, to be more precise. I'd learned west-coast style before but the lindy-hop seemed at once too complex in its basic step and too simple in its variations thereon. West-coast has a simpler basic step and allowed more improvisation thereon. I learned all of this, of course, on another date which ranks in my top dates of all time. This time, set the stage in the 1950's. Picture an old amusement park, with a carousel and bumper cars. Imagine a ballroom packed with couples, jiving to the groove of "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" and other similar tunes as played and sung by a live band and appropriately costumed singer. And of course, when it gets too hot inside with all the dancing, you'll just step outside and wander down to the swing-set where you'll talk and laugh and watch the stars and fireflies. Then you'll dance again, of course, and race to the carousel where you'll ride matching ostriches and hold hands. And when it's all over you'll go for a malt at the Silver Diner, and then he'll walk you to your door like a gentleman. And this time-traveling year will feel even less real then before.
I had also hoped to cultivate a disinterested approach to watching politics unfold in DC. I came here an independent, and independent I remain. But I had wanted to be an observer, sort of like taking my anthro training into my political life. And it is not that easy. I find myself drawn into political discourse, fascinated by both sides but undeniably pulled to the left. I will probably never register as a democrat, but I wonder if I'll ever seriously consider voting republican at all. The protests, the arguments, the rallies and the speeches fascinate me. But I cannot remain aloof to it all. I take sides, have opinions, and argue back. Someone, somewhere, a lofty anthropology professor probably, in a tweed jacket, will laugh at my naivete. Lesson learned, oh young fool! It is not as easy as it sounds, particularly when, unlike your stay in India, you actually understand what is going on.
Overall, this year feels like such a resounding success to me. It wasn't as I had imagined it, and that is as it should be. So, now, time to pack up right? Time to tie off any loose ends of the year-that-didn't-exist and finish up preparations to resume my real-life in academia. Scotland awaits!
Except, you can't plan everything can you? Sometimes the world surprises you. Life surprises you. Sometimes, despite all your best laid plans a boy walks into your life and turns your best laid plans on their head. True, sometimes that boy is a republican. But sometimes that boy is also incredibly smart and funny and good. Sometimes that wonderful boy asks you to marry him.
And sometimes you say yes.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
June Prose
The air conditioning in the lobby is incredible, and the rush of hot, wet air that hits my skin as I push through the outer doors is a relief, at least for a moment. Humidity is fickle like that. The dessert heat burned and scorched, killing you quickly and impersonally. This heat is worse perhaps, because it does not kill impersonally. It lives and breaths and creeps into your nose and lungs. This heat does not kiss your skin like sunlight, it invades you and transforms you. I can feel my hair rising, curling and waving with the hot, wet air. My skin feels more alive and less my own. This heat does not kill you. It consumes you.
The pigeons have it in for me, you know. They wait, just there across the street. Innocently pecking through a crushed mound of potato chips or bread, dipping into the fountain specked with sunlight and fungus. As though they do not see me coming, as though they have no intentions toward me at all. But they are too quiet now. I do not trust these pigeons. See? The fat one, there! He'll be the one today. His turn to fly at me, just past my face. A great fat flutter of gray wings and feathers, like cigarette butts and death.
The sun is here, of course. She's everywhere, that whore. That great glowing Grushenka. She'll steal it all from me, one day. Ruin me, like Katerina.
The pigeons have it in for me, you know. They wait, just there across the street. Innocently pecking through a crushed mound of potato chips or bread, dipping into the fountain specked with sunlight and fungus. As though they do not see me coming, as though they have no intentions toward me at all. But they are too quiet now. I do not trust these pigeons. See? The fat one, there! He'll be the one today. His turn to fly at me, just past my face. A great fat flutter of gray wings and feathers, like cigarette butts and death.
The sun is here, of course. She's everywhere, that whore. That great glowing Grushenka. She'll steal it all from me, one day. Ruin me, like Katerina.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
If I were the Queen of the Forest:
No one would ever again use the word "prego" to describe being pregnant. It's an insult not only to the Italian language but also to cheap, sodium filled spaghetti sauce and I WILL NOT STAND FOR THAT.
Friday, April 23, 2010
I'm pretty sure no one but me can read this and still love me.
I cannot stand hearing that ugly accent asking for a certain co-worker of mine when I pick up the work phone. Sometimes whoever it is mumbles, too, which I find very disturbing. Maybe it's not even the same person but it drives me nuts. Why does it bother me? I think partially it is because while English is associated (in my mind) with my own culture, that accent is associated (in my mind) with stupidity. So I somehow come out feeling that whoever it is just called my culture (and by extension myself) stupid. I think this makes me some sort of linguistical-elitist and/or socialist. Thoughts?
Also the mumbling seems disrespectful because it feels like whoever-this-is has decided he/she/it can be lazy about MOVING THEIR FRIGGING MOUTH and expect me to put forth extra effort to interpret the garbled message they give me. So I always say, even when I somehow manage to understand him/her/it the first time, "I'm sorry, WHAT??" That way this lazy, rude, mumbling him/her/it has to repeat the message and thereby expend more effort. Sometimes I make whoever-it-is repeat it multiple times. In other words, mumbling-throat: I'm totally messing with you, Suckah!
In other news, I'm dating a republican. Freaky, I know, right? Somebody call the X-files because an alien has invaded Cathlin's body and is making her do CRAZY stuff. Anywho, some random problems with the ideological differences in the relationship (unsurprisingly, all of these are my fault):
1. When I read political news and find myself trudging through the sludge of the comments section, I find myself reading every republican/tea party/gun-slinging, hate throwing, right wing meanie-head comment and then associated them all with him. This means at the end of the day, without even knowing it, he has managed to insult me and and my political opinions dozens of times, with a smattering of profanity, misspellings, and death threats thrown in for good measure. I honestly find myself thinking "How can I be dating someone who would write this sort of filth?" and then I find myself thinking "How can HE be dating anyone who is so obviously confused and delusional?"
2. Sometimes when he isn't around and my family starts joking about republicans I get this weird mother-bear instinct and have to restrain myself from threatening to leave the family if they don't STOP INSULTING MY BOYFRIEND! I. Am. Nuts.
3. I spend significant portions of our time together (while we are talking, driving, watching movies, and even eating) poking him in the face. This really has nothing to do with our political differences, and I can offer no real explanation for why I do it. I'm just putting it out there as further proof of that this post's title is an apt one.
Also the mumbling seems disrespectful because it feels like whoever-this-is has decided he/she/it can be lazy about MOVING THEIR FRIGGING MOUTH and expect me to put forth extra effort to interpret the garbled message they give me. So I always say, even when I somehow manage to understand him/her/it the first time, "I'm sorry, WHAT??" That way this lazy, rude, mumbling him/her/it has to repeat the message and thereby expend more effort. Sometimes I make whoever-it-is repeat it multiple times. In other words, mumbling-throat: I'm totally messing with you, Suckah!
In other news, I'm dating a republican. Freaky, I know, right? Somebody call the X-files because an alien has invaded Cathlin's body and is making her do CRAZY stuff. Anywho, some random problems with the ideological differences in the relationship (unsurprisingly, all of these are my fault):
1. When I read political news and find myself trudging through the sludge of the comments section, I find myself reading every republican/tea party/gun-slinging, hate throwing, right wing meanie-head comment and then associated them all with him. This means at the end of the day, without even knowing it, he has managed to insult me and and my political opinions dozens of times, with a smattering of profanity, misspellings, and death threats thrown in for good measure. I honestly find myself thinking "How can I be dating someone who would write this sort of filth?" and then I find myself thinking "How can HE be dating anyone who is so obviously confused and delusional?"
2. Sometimes when he isn't around and my family starts joking about republicans I get this weird mother-bear instinct and have to restrain myself from threatening to leave the family if they don't STOP INSULTING MY BOYFRIEND! I. Am. Nuts.
3. I spend significant portions of our time together (while we are talking, driving, watching movies, and even eating) poking him in the face. This really has nothing to do with our political differences, and I can offer no real explanation for why I do it. I'm just putting it out there as further proof of that this post's title is an apt one.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Spelling Lessons
O is for Old, because he kinda looks it now.
B is for Barack, because it's his first name (duh).
A is for American. Or America. Or Armpit.
M is for Mayonaise, because it's almost lunchtime.
A is for American Armpit. I already told you that. What, you want a different word for each letter? Well, then you should have voted for Obami or Obamu or Obamt. Yeah. Obamt, I like that one.
Obamt: To be obalmost as obawesome as me.
Happy Friday, Everybody!
B is for Barack, because it's his first name (duh).
A is for American. Or America. Or Armpit.
M is for Mayonaise, because it's almost lunchtime.
A is for American Armpit. I already told you that. What, you want a different word for each letter? Well, then you should have voted for Obami or Obamu or Obamt. Yeah. Obamt, I like that one.
Obamt: To be obalmost as obawesome as me.
Happy Friday, Everybody!
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